Season Three

Episode Sixteen: One Way Ticket

By irismay42 & Kittsbud

Part Three

Amtrak 66
Between Philadelphia, PA and Trenton, NJ

There was nothing like having a gun jammed to the back of your head to relieve the tedium, Dean reflected, attempting to twist around a little in order to identify the man currently sticking the .38 in his neck.

“Get your hands on your head!” the guy ordered in response. “On your knees! Both of you!”

“Can we at least talk about this?” Dean asked, eyes locking with Sam’s as both of them sank to their knees, fingers laced to the rear of their heads.

“Save it for your attorney,” the voice snapped, wrenching one of Dean’s wrists backwards and slapping on the cold hard steel of handcuffs.

Dean grimaced as the guy grabbed his other wrist, twisted it behind him and secured his hands a little too tightly at his back. “Sure hope you got another set o’ those –” he began, grinning in Sam’s direction.

“Shut up,” his brother and his captor barked in unison, Dean blinking in affronted surprise at Sam, whose face softened slightly in response.

“Listen – sir?” Sam was looking over Dean’s head at the guy standing behind him, eyes going all dewy and earnest in the time it had taken Dean to shut his mouth. “I swear to you, we didn’t do this – Detective Wozniak – we found him like this –”

“Uh-huh,” the guy huffed in a monotone. He proceeded to frisk Dean methodically, yanking the silver Colt out of his waistband, much to Dean’s irritation. “Like you just ‘found’ Emily Channing in St. Louis?”

Dean’s eyes widened as they locked with Sam’s.

“This isn’t your usual style, Dean,” the guy continued. “Thought you were all about torturing helpless girls? Never figured you for the Devil’s Disciple type. Certainly never had you down as the Service 66 Slayer –”

“That’s because I’m not –” Dean began to protest.

“Can it,” the nameless assailant barked. “I know who – what – you are, Dean Winchester.”

Dean managed to shift slightly, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of Secret Agent iPod Guy reading something on his iPhone. “Oh yeah, and what’s that, Mr. Jobs?” he asked sarcastically.

One side of the guy’s mouth ticked up. “Funny,” he grit out. “They said you were a real charmer.”

“Who said?”

The guy didn’t reply. “So let’s see…” he was looking at his iPhone again. “You’re still wanted for murder in St. Louis.” He glanced up. “Although – y’know – you’re technically dead and everything –”

“It’s a miracle,” Dean commented dryly.

“Suspected of several murders in the St. Louis area, including the aforementioned Emily Channing. Then there’s an assault on an Alex and a Lindsay Akita; another assault on a Rebecca Warren. You and your little brother Sam here are wanted for a whole slew of felonies and misdemeanors – credit card fraud, deception, B and E, arson –” his eyebrows rose, “– grave desecration, that’s a new one on me. Oh and let’s not forget impersonating a police officer, a federal agent, a government official…need I go on?”

Dean glanced at Sam again. “Please do,” he said. “You’re just getting to the good part – where we’re freakin’ innocent!”

The guy raised an unimpressed brow. “I wouldn’t say either of you were innocent, Dean,” he said. “I saw you trailing Wozniak. And one of the attendants tells me you had some kind of run in with him earlier.”

Dean’s expression telegraphed Someone saw that? to Sam, who muttered, “I knew I saw someone in that corridor.”

“Then you admit it?”

“I admit we spoke to him. He was hassling one of the female passengers.”

“Ask her. She’ll tell you,” Dean added. “Her name’s Robinson. R-o-b…”

“You know, I figured I recognized you the minute I made you following me around the train,” the guy continued.

Maybe need some extra surveillance training there, Bucko, Dean chastised himself.

“Just couldn’t think where I’d seen your face before,” the guy continued, straightening. “What was I? You’re next victim?”

Dean snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, pal –”

“Dean –” Sam tried to interject.

“– You’re not exactly my type,” Dean continued regardless.

“No,” the guy agreed. “Helpless young women tied to chairs are more your type, right?”

Dean scowled at him. “I didn’t murder that girl.”

“Just someone who looked incredibly like you, huh?”

Dean bristled. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Well, whatever,” the guy with the gun continued dismissively, keeping his eye on Dean while he patted Sam down and took away his Glock. “Y’know, modern technology is just awesome in the battle against scumbags like you.” He waved his phone smugly. “Got a guy back at the precinct to e-mail me a few mugshots – the FBI’s Most Wanted list. You know you’re on that, right?”

“Nice to be famous,” Dean snarked. “One of my ambitions in life.”

“So you’re a cop?” Sam put in. “Might have helped if you’d introduced yourself earlier.”

“Detective Rafael Guevara,” the cop said with a nod of his head. “Baltimore PD. Consider me introduced.”

“You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, Detective,” Sam pointed out.

Guevara’s expression faltered just a little. “Slayer’s last victim was my cousin,” he said flatly. “That makes this my jurisdiction.” The corner of his mouth twitched up a little. “Never expected the Slayer to be Dean Winchester though.”

He tugged roughly on Dean’s cuffs just because he could, and Dean grunted as he struggled to maintain his balance.

“Dude, you got the wrong guy!” he protested. “Frisk me some more if you want – you ain’t gonna find no murder weapon –”

“’Cause you already tossed the knife?”

“No, ’cause I –” Dean stopped short, grimacing angrily. “’Cause I hid it in here with the rest of the crap the Slayer planted in Stringer’s room.” He shook his head as he locked eyes with Sam. “I am such an idiot – the Slayer must have found it – or worse, saw me put it here – and used it to slice n’ dice Wozniak…”

Guevara frowned. “What ‘crap?’”

Dean jerked his head toward a dark corner of the car, between two stacks of luggage. “Someone planted a load of demonic stuff – including this scary-ass dagger – in Jay Stringer’s room to make us think he was the Slayer.”

Guevara paused mid-stride. “New York Giants Jay Stringer?”

Dean nodded. “You want me to get you his autograph? We’re tight since he cried all over my shoulder.”

Guevara ignored him. “Why would the Slayer want you to suspect Stringer?” he asked, crouching down to examine the items Dean had removed from the cornerback’s room.

Dean glanced at Sam, who stammered, “’Cause – uh – whoever it was may have been under the impression we were cops…”

Guevara raised an eyebrow as he examined the photograph of the girl with her eyes cut out. “I wonder what gave him that idea?” he asked sardonically.

“Look, man,” Dean renewed his protests. “We’re not who you think we are – we’re here to catch this evil sonofabitch just like you are, but while we’re standing here – uh – chatting, the real murderer’s still out there lining up his next victim –”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re so very innocent –”

“Hey, wait.” Sam suddenly tilted his head to one side as he caught sight of the photograph clutched in Guevara’s hand. “That’s Veronica Sayers.”

“Who the hell is Veronica Sayers?” Dean and Guevara managed to chorus in unison.

“Veronica Sayers!” Sam repeated, as if they both ought to know who he was talking about. “The Butcher’s last victim?”

Guevara glanced down at the picture and Dean frowned over at his brother. “Why leave that for us to find?” he asked.

“Homage to his Master,” Guevara muttered distractedly.

“We don’t think the Slayer’s a copycat,” Sam countered.

“What the hell do I care what you think?” Guevara snapped, coming back to himself.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude, how many times we gotta tell you? We’re the good guys!”

Guevara snorted derisively. “And I’m Shirley Temple.”

“Look,” Sam continued, before Dean could make some comment they might both regret. “The Slayer’s clearly trying to prove that the Butcher is back to continue his ‘mission’ – offering up his victims’ hearts and souls to his perceived Satanic Master – that’s gotta be why he left us the photograph of the Butcher’s final victim.”

Guevara shifted slightly. “How can you claim the Slayer’s not a copycat when you just said he’s trying to prove he’s continuing the Butcher’s work?”

The brothers exchanged a weary glance.

“Man, if you don’t believe I’m not the Slayer, you’re never gonna believe the rest of what we have to say.”

Guevara had returned to Wozniak’s prone form, inspecting the area around the body for evidence. Dean doubted he’d find any. The detective looked up at him coolly. “Try me,” he challenged.

Sam took a breath. “We don’t think the Slayer is a copycat of the Butcher,” he explained slowly. “We think he is the Butcher.”

Guevara just stared at him for a second, expression completely neutral. “Elliot Butcher? The guy who was executed in 1956? That Elliot Butcher? You think he’s – what? – come back from the dead as – as a ghost or something? To continue his reign of terror?” He actually laughed out loud in amused disbelief.

Sam shrugged. “In a manner of speaking –”

“– Yes,” Dean finished for him. Reading Guevara’s obvious skepticism in the sudden tight set of his shoulders, he added, “Look, this is what we do, man. We know what we’re talking about. And we know it sounds crazy.” He shook his head. “Man, we do. But that’s what’s going on here, I swear to God.”

An incongruous grin crept across Guevara’s face, as if suddenly it all made some kind of ridiculous sense to him. “You’re Ghost Busters?” He snorted. “So you’re going for the insanity plea, right?”

“Dude,” Dean’s voice was oddly controlled. “That guy who killed the girl in St. Louis? That wasn’t me. It was a creature who could look like anyone it wanted and, obviously, being a creature of taste and discernment it chose to look like me.”

Guevara was nodding. “Of course,” he agreed sarcastically. “If you can look like anyone, why look like a bum when you can look like a catalog model?”

Dean scowled at him. “Listen, man, this is serious –”

“Damn right it’s serious!” Guevara’s eyes flashed, and he was suddenly crouching down in front of Dean, almost nose to nose with him. “You think I’m an idiot, Dean Winchester? You think I’m gonna fall for this whack-a-day ghost B.S.? Huh? You guys already killed at least five people. Including my cousin Javier. You’re not killing any more. Not if I have anything to say about it!”

“Sir –” Sam tried to intercede, but Guevara was having none of it.

“Save it,” he snapped, cutting him off with a wave of his hand, rising to his feet and circling behind Dean until he was standing in his earlier position, just inside the doorway. “This train doesn’t get any further than Trenton tonight. When we get there, the whole train – including everyone onboard – gets locked down while I sort this whole mess out once and for all. Nobody gets off.” He cast a glance down at Wozniak. “This guy might have been dirty – believe me, I know whose payroll he was on – and he might have been an asshole, but he was still one of New Jersey’s –” he stopped himself abruptly, obviously reconsidering what he’d been about to say. “He was still a police officer.”

“If you lock this train down, the real killer’s gonna get away,” Dean insisted. “He’s obviously real familiar with the 66, man – he knew exactly the most out-of-the-way location to off Wozniak without witnesses or interruptions – and you can bet your shiny gold badge he’ll be off this train before it even hits the platform at Trenton.”

“And if that doesn’t work for him,” Sam added, “he can just carry on doing what he’s been doing up until this point; like you said, he’s already gotten away with five murders. Not only does he know this train inside out, but he’s obviously really good at blending into the crowd, not drawing attention to himself. And if he goes to ground we won’t get another crack at him until he kills again. You want that? Another murder on your conscience?”

“Don’t tell me what I do or do not want, pal,” Guevara snarled. “You didn’t lose family to this creep.”

“But I will lose family if you haul Dean in to the precinct and blame him for all of this!”

“And more people will die,” Dean added. “Dude, it’s not worth letting someone lose their life just to try and prove a point you’re never gonna prove: I’m not the Slayer, man!”

Guevara just stared levelly at them for a moment, jaw clenched, as if he was actually considering what they were saying to him. Then he shook his head and pulled out his cellphone, laughing mirthlessly as he began to punch in a number. “I can’t believe I almost fell for that,” he muttered. He looked up at them, straightening. “How stupid do you two think I am? I already caught the Slayer. No one else is gonna die. Not once I’ve got Dean Winchester locked up. And that’s why I’m calling ahead to Trenton – get you boys a nice comfy jail cell.”

“Dude, you gotta believe us!” Dean protested.

“I don’t ‘gotta’ anything –”

Guevara broke off mid-sentence, suddenly collapsing to the floor in a boneless heap as his iPhone skittered across the luggage car floor, coming to rest in the pool of Wozniak’s congealing blood.

Dean twisted his head to get a better look at what the hell just happened, only to find himself gazing up at Warwick, who was standing in the doorway brandishing a fire extinguisher.

“Dude!” Dean burst out in rapt admiration.

Warwick shrugged a little sheepishly. “If anyone stands a chance of catching this Slayer creep, my money’s on you two,” he pronounced. “The cops can’t end this. I think you two can.”

The brothers just stared at him for a second, before Sam finally managed to string a sentence together. “Sir, that’s – we appreciate your faith in us.”

Warwick nodded. “I heard what you said – about this being some kind of spirit – Elliot Butcher’s spirit.” He raised his head and stared at them levelly. “You really believe that?”

Dean nodded. “Yes sir, we do,” he said. “And believe me, we know how crazy it sounds.”

Warwick shrugged. “I seen some crazy stuff in my time,” he said. “Not least, Elliot Butcher. If anyone can rise up from the dead to carry on killing people, it’s him. He said he’d be back. The man’s obviously true to his word.”

“That still leaves us with a problem,” Sam pointed out, hauling himself to his feet and heading over to check Guevara.

“Only one?” Dean asked.

“Well –” Sam paused to re-think that assessment. “Okay, two problems.” He began to pat down the cop’s body, pulling out first Dean’s Colt, then his own Glock and finally Guevara’s .38 before finally locating the keys to Dean’s cuffs. “We got ourselves one dead cop and one unconscious cop who’s convinced you’re the Slayer.”

Dean snorted. “Is that all? I thought we had a demon-worshipping serial killer on the loose too.”

Sam snagged hold of Dean’s cuffs, jamming in the key a little less than gently and yanking them open. “Okay, there’s that. Make it three problems.”

Dean rubbed at his wrists to restore some semblance of circulation. “Well,” he said, gesturing for his Colt and the cuffs still clutched in Sam’s hands, “unconscious cop we can deal with. At least temporarily.”

Sam handed him the .45 and the cuffs, Dean securing his handgun at the small of his back before crouching down next to Guevara, snapping one of the cuffs snuggly around his right wrist before pulling him over to the side of the car and securing the other to a metal rail running along the bottom of the wall.

Reaching into his jeans pocket, he produced a handkerchief which he then used to gag the insensible police officer, Sam just blinking at him for a second.

“Dude – you carry around a handkerchief?” he burst out in disbelief.

Dean looked up at him, shrugging dismissively. “Never know when you’re gonna need to gag someone, Sammy,” he replied with a devilish grin.

“Bet that’s not something they teach at Boy Scouts,” Sam muttered, surveying the job his brother had done securing the cop. “Okay, one down –”

“We could put the dead one in the freezer,” Warwick suddenly suggested, gesturing to Wozniak. “It’ll be pretty empty by this stage of the journey. At least it’ll keep him from being found until you boys – do whatever it is you’re going to do.”

“Now there’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question,” Dean sighed.

Sam ignored him. “Okay, Warwick, I’ll help you with that,” he said instead, turning back to Dean with a lopsided grin. “You okay cleaning up here?”

Dean grimaced. “Gee thanks, Sammy. How come I always get stuck with mop detail?” He turned mournful eyes down onto the pool of blood congealing about the dead cop as he scooped up Guevara’s cell.

“At least you scored an iPhone,” Sam informed him, smiling brightly.

“Yeah, covered in a dead cop’s blood,” Dean pointed out, examining the phone in distaste.

“Supply closet down the hall,” Warwick put in helpfully, nodding his head toward the far doorway as he maneuvered a luggage cart over to the mountain of flesh that was the former Detective Wozniak.

* * * *

It took Warwick and Sam a good few minutes to wrangle the heavy form of the dead cop up onto the luggage cart, Warwick dragging a plastic sheet from off a stack of wooden cartons and draping it unceremoniously over the body.

Sam followed Warwick’s lead as he maneuvered the cart out into the next car, glancing behind him briefly as he was again assaulted by the odd impression he was being watched.

But all he saw as he looked back over his shoulder was Dean scowling at the supply closet as he pulled out a mop and bucket.

He smiled slightly before following Warwick down through several sleeper cars until they reached the tiny kitchen to the rear of the snack car where Warwick opened a mercifully almost empty freezer and gestured for Sam to help him lift the heavy cop inside.

Sam dutifully obliged; he and Warwick somehow managing to manhandle the mass of New Jersey policeman into the freezer and push the lid down over his bulky form.

Warwick then rummaged in a locker to the side of the small sink, pulling out a laminated sign reading “out of order” which he proceeded to stick on the freezer door.

“That ought to keep anybody from looking in there,” the porter said. “With a little luck.” He smiled in satisfaction at a task accomplished, seemingly unfazed by having just stashed a dead body in the kitchen freezer.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And if it doesn’t?”

Warwick inclined his head to one side. “Then the Slayer’s suddenly become a little more conscientious about clearing up after himself.”

“Warwick, you could get in trouble –”

“Look, son,” Warwick put a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I couldn’t help catch the Butcher back in the fifties. This is the least I can do.”

Sam was about to reply when a blood-chilling scream suddenly rent the air. He turned sharply, darting back out into the snack car, where whey-faced passengers were glancing around themselves in fear, seeking out the source of the terrible sound.

“Everyone remain calm.” Warwick was suddenly in front of Sam, his voice exuding authority and reassurance. “There are police officers on this train. No one is in any danger.”

Sam sure hoped that was true as he headed off in the direction of the scream, running down past the sleeper cars, toward the luggage compartment where he’d last seen Dean.

Crashing through a doorway into one of the last sleeper cars, Sam skidded to a halt as the guttering overhead light revealed a shadowy figure not far in front of him, a knife glinting in his hand which was pressed to the throat of a second, smaller figure – a young woman – who was being dragged down the narrow hallway despite her violent protestations. “Get off me you creep!”

The lights flickered on full brightness for a second, and only then could Sam discern Kim Robinson’s ashen face, terror plain in her eyes as she kicked and struggled hopelessly.

“Hey!” Sam yelled, Kim suddenly yanked around in his direction, her assailant positioning her in front of him like a human shield. “Let her go!”

“Help me!” Kim croaked desperately. “Please! Please help!”

Her attacker yanked on the door at the far end of the sleeper car, even as Sam pulled out his cell and hurriedly hit the speed dial.

“Dean?” he barked into the phone. “Dean, it’s the Slayer! He’s headed in your direction – and he’s got Kim!”

* * * *

The lights flickered wildly as Dean glanced up from the now-spotless floor of the luggage car, phone pressed tightly to his ear.

“He’s what?” he burst out, eyes darting to the doorway even as he dashed toward it. “If we can trap him between us –” He let the idea hang as he shoved through the doorway and sprinted down the adjoining sleeper car, even as the door at the far end of the carriage flew open.

Drawing his Colt, he skidded to a halt and held his ground, Kim Robinson suddenly shoved through the door in front of him.

“Kim!” he yelled, as an arm came into view wrapped around the girl’s neck and holding the ceremonial dagger Dean had earlier removed from Jay Stringer’s room. “Let her go you sadistic psycho bastard!”

Kim let out a whimper as her forward motion was abruptly halted, the arm tugging on her neck and yanking her backwards, back through the doorway, which slammed hard in front of her.

“No!”

Dean threw himself down the carriage, fingers scrabbling at the door handle even as he heard a lock clunk into place on the other side, Kim’s terrified visage the only thing visible through the dingy glass panel set into the door.

“Sonofa –”

He began kicking and pounding at the door, briefly considering shooting at the lock before dismissing the idea, Kim too close on the other side to risk any stray metal or wood fragments – or God forbid a stray bullet – plowing into her.

“Dammit! Sam!”

* * * *

Sam drew his Glock as the dark figure of the Slayer re-emerged into the sleeper car, slamming and locking the door as Dean’s angry face appeared at the glass beyond, the sound of his brother kicking and pounding at the wood echoing along the carriage.

“Let the girl go!” Sam repeated, inching toward them, fingers curling firmly around his handgun. “There’s no escape! Nowhere for you to go! Just give it up now and I won’t hurt you!”

“Please!” Kim repeated, eyes wild and imploring. “Don’t let him kill me!”

The lights chose that moment to flicker, and it was almost as if Sam was watching a really old movie, Kim letting out another petrified scream as she was suddenly launched toward him.

A cold blast of night air funneled down the hallway as Sam caught Kim in his arms and pulled her to him, feeling her sag as he tightened his grip on her.

“It’s okay,” he soothed her. “I got you. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

As the lights spluttered back on, Sam’s gaze shot to the car’s outer door, which was hanging open, the wind catching hold of it and repeatedly slamming into the side of the train.

The Slayer was nowhere to be seen.

He shivered as he maneuvered Kim forward, frowning as he double and triple checked the Slayer wasn’t hiding somewhere inside the train.

Satisfied that the killer was nowhere inside, he unlocked the car’s inner door, wrenching it open so that Dean could get through.

“What the hell, Sammy?” Dean demanded breathlessly. “Where the hell did the bastard go?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know how he did it,” he said, indicating the open outer door. “Those doors can’t be opened while the train’s moving – not without an override key, and only Amtrak staff carry those.”

Dean peered out through the open car door, blinking in the cold air which immediately bit at his face. “He must have gotten out onto the roof,” he mused. “And to have gotten this door open…”

“He’d have to have access,” Sam finished for him. “And knowledge.” He glanced around him. “Just like he did with Wozniak – he was bringing Kim to the quietest part of the train.”

Kim, still clinging to Sam like a giant life preserver, suddenly let out a small cry as her eyes fell on the compartment outside of which they were standing. “That’s my room!” she burst out. “He was bringing me back to my room!”

Sam glanced meaningfully over her head at Dean before carefully asking, “Where’s Carter?”

Kim seemed momentarily confused. “We were getting drinks…” she stammered. “I said I’d meet him back here after I – y’know – slipped into something more comfortable.”

Dean raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, instead asking, “And this freak snatched you up before you made it back?”

Kim nodded.

“He was watching,” Sam said slowly.

“Watching?” Kim whispered, grip tightening on Sam.

Dean took a breath. “Better see what’s behind door number one,” he said with a shrug, pushing at Kim’s door as if he expected it to be locked.

It wasn’t.

The door swung open easily, and Kim let out a pitiful whimper when she caught sight of the interior of her room.

“She was going to be the next victim,” Sam breathed softly, eyes raking over the reorganized contents of the room – the black altar, the candles, the bloody markings on the walls – all laid out exactly as he’d seen them in the crime scene photos from the Butcher’s earlier “works” in the fifties.

Dean’s eyes flickered back to the still-open car door. “Sam we need to catch this weirdo,” he said. “Right now. If he slips back into the train we’re gonna lose him.”

Sam nodded in reluctant agreement. “I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

Dean grinned at him. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Sammy?” he asked, before turning back to Kim. “You know what happened to Carter when you left him?”

As if on cue, the actor appeared at the far end of the car, a confused grimace on his face as he rubbed at the back of his head.

Warwick emerged behind him in the hallway, Jay Stringer in tow.

The porter looked over at Sam and Dean. “Found him in the bathroom,” he said, jerking his thumb in Carter’s direction. “Out cold.”

“Someone hit me!” Carter whined, almost as if he couldn’t believe such a thing was possible, fingers coming away from his immaculate hair still sticky with his own blood.

“Baby!” Kim abruptly released her hold on Sam, running for Carter and throwing herself into his arms. “It was that sicko – the Slayer!” she burst out. “He dragged me back here – he was going to – to –” She finally broke down in tears as she gestured to her room, Carter paling when he glimpsed the new interior décor.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, looking up at Dean and Sam. “You guys stopped him?”

Sam shrugged. “For now,” he said. “We think he might have escaped up onto the roof…”

“Then we need to get up there after him!” Stringer stepped forward, all muscle, anger, and need for bloody revenge.

“Hold you horses there, Hoss.” Dean put the flat of his hand against Stringer’s chest – which had disturbingly little effect on the football player’s forward momentum. “We need you down here,” Dean continued, planting his feet in an attempt to stop the big cornerback pushing him right over. “We need you to keep an eye on these two, huh?” He indicated Kim and Carter with a nod of his head. “Just in case.”

Stringer paused, nodding slightly as he backed off. “I can do that.”

“Then you’re going up on the roof?” Warwick asked. “He could be back inside by now –”

“Maybe,” Dean shrugged. “Maybe not.” He glanced sideways at Sam a little sheepishly. “I kinda got a theory…”

Sam frowned. “You do?”

“It sounds kinda whacked.”

“And a dead serial killer possessing one of the living and forcing him to commit ritualistic murder doesn’t?”

“Okay, you got me there,” Dean admitted, before continuing. “I – I think maybe it’s electricity,” he said. “How he’s drawing the power to stay here, to stay in control of his host. It’s not like spooks can usually possess people, right?”

Sam had to give Dean that. “Not generally.”

“And Butcher went to the electric chair,” Dean added, eyes bright. “And the electrics have been on the fritz ever since we got on the electrified part of the line.”

“Ye-ah…”

“So what if Butcher’s somehow channeling the train’s power – whether he realizes it or not – to keep control of his host?”

Sam shrugged. “How does that help us?”

“Look,” Dean explained. “If this really is the ghost of Elliot Butcher possessing some ordinary random guy, then we’re not gonna just be able to exorcise him like we would a demon –”

“‘Demon?’” Warwick echoed.

Sam smiled apologetically. “Yeah – uh –”

“And it’s not like we can just salt n’ burn the guy’s remains before the train gets to Hell Gate Bridge,” Dean added.

“So…?”

“So we’re gonna need to get a little creative to off this sucker,” Dean explained. “Getting him out of his host ain’t gonna be enough – he could just possess someone else and carry on with his little slayer-fest.”

“So we gotta destroy Butcher’s spirit,” Sam agreed. “Permanently.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And we do that how?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sammy, always with the details. Look, Butcher went to the electric chair, right? Maybe if we electrocute him it’ll shock Butcher’s spirit out of the host, just like his spirit was shocked out of his own body at the moment of his death – to come back and hang out here fifty years later.”

Sam inclined his head and narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like a stretch to me,” he said. “And even if it worked, how the hell do we electrocute the Slayer without seriously injuring – or more likely burning to a crisp – Butcher’s host?”

Dean averted his eyes a little.

“You’re saying we sacrifice the host?” Sam sounded a little shocked himself.

“If that’s what has to happen to get rid of this sucker…” Dean let that hang and Sam sighed heavily.

“Yeah,” he agreed slowly. “In lieu of any other bright ideas. So how do we electrocute him?”

Dean grinned, eyes turning heavenward. “’S what I’ve been trying to tell you, man! We got twenty-five thousand volts above our heads! That could be the whole reason he’s up there – maybe he’s drawn to the power somehow!”

Sam followed Dean’s upward gaze despite himself. “The power lines?” he asked. “Oh man… I so don’t like the sound of this…”

* * * *

“Dude, we’re like James Bond in Octopussy!” Dean burst out gleefully, legs dangling over nothing for a second before he managed to haul himself up onto the roof of the train.

He swayed a bit as he got slowly to his feet, trying to get his bearings as cold early morning air whipped passed him, tugging at his clothes and making his eyes water.

It was still pitch dark, middle of the night dark, and he peered into the blackness, squinting at a dark shape to the rear of them, steadily moving toward the far end of the train.

“Try to at least pretend you’re not enjoying this, Dean,” Sam’s voice groused up from beneath him, a hand reaching up toward his brother.

“And you should try to have more fun in your work, Sammy,” Dean commented as he reached down to help Sam pull himself up onto the roof.

Sam stayed on his knees for a second, one hand gripping Dean’s while the other held on to the side of the roof. “This is not my idea of fun, Dean,” he said, the wind whipping mercilessly at his shirt and his hair, so that he could barely see.

“It’s the girlie haircut, man,” Dean commented, raising his voice to be heard over the wind and the noise of the engine and the metal on metal screech of the wheels speeding over the train track. “If you didn’t have that whole sheepdog thing going on, you might actually be able to see that our Slayer’s still up here with us.”

He hung on to Sam’s hand for a second longer, the younger brother rising unsteadily to his feet and standing stock still as he tried to gain his balance.

“You’re just too tall, man,” Dean pointed out. “You’re center of gravity’s all wrong; you look like Bambi on that icy lake.”

Sam scowled at him. “You’ve never even seen Bambi.”

“Have too,” Dean disagreed. “You cried till I snuck us into the movies, remember? It was – I dunno – your sixteenth birthday or something.”

“Shut up,” Sam said. “I was five.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean agreed.

Sam shrugged off his hand in annoyance, wobbling a little bit and almost grabbing it back. “Has he seen us?” He bent his knees a little in order to better stabilize himself.

Dean shrugged, taking a hesitant step forward, the cold and the wind pummeling him as the train sped on through the night, trees whipping past at a rate that seemed much faster out here than it had down below, in the comfort and relative safety of the sleeper car.

Maybe this hadn’t been his brightest idea ever.

He took another step, putting his hands out as he swayed a little, acutely aware of the power lines carrying twenty-five thousand volts uncomfortably close to his face. “Why do they make this look so easy in the movies?” he demanded.

“Because they don’t expect idiots like us to try it in real life,” Sam returned.

Dean figured that was a fair comment.

He glanced up then, and the dark figure up ahead of them stopping, straightening and seeming to turn in their direction. “Uh –” he grunted. “I think he’s seen us.”

Sam pushed his hair out of his face. “If you tell me we have to run, I’m going to kill you.”

“Sammy, we have to run.”

Dean took a breath before launching himself forward, arms held out to the sides as if he was on some circus high wire, feet pounding on the metal roof as he put his head down and ran.

It was actually a lot easier at this speed, the wind at his back pushing him forward, feet nimbly jumping over obstacles, and he began to feel exhilarated, almost weightless, as he gained on the dark shadow trying to escape to the rear of the train.

He saw the figure stop suddenly and turn to look at him, feet teetering on the edge of the car before he turned back and jumped.

Dean caught his breath, the guy’s feet pounding on metal as he landed perfectly on the car to their rear.

Dammit.

Still, if he fell, that could make things a whole lot more complicated, Butcher’s spirit merely jumping on into the next poor schmuck before his current host even hit the rails beneath them.

Glancing behind him to make sure Sam was still following, he picked up the pace, trying to gain some momentum before having to make the jump to the next car himself.

When he got there he almost stopped dead, fear suddenly gripping him as he launched himself off the car and prayed he landed on the next one, not somewhere in between.

Relief flooded him as his boots landed with a clang on the next carriage, and he continued his pursuit, listening out for Sam behind him as he kept his eyes forward, trained on his quarry.

He hadn’t been lying before when he’d said they made it look way too easy in the movies.

He quickened his pace as he closed in on the shadowy form of the Slayer, the guy only a few feet in front of him when he stopped abruptly and turned.

Dean skidded to a halt in response. “You’ve got nowhere to go, dude!” he yelled, Sam’s heavy footsteps drawing up behind him. “No more train!”

They were standing on the roof of the rear engine, the Slayer teetering once more on the brink as he gazed behind him onto nothing but empty train track.

“C’mon, man, give it up!” Dean insisted, glancing over his shoulder at Sam as the train unaccountably began to slow. There were red lights ahead of them, and it took him a second to realize the 66 was stopping at signals.

He exchanged a glance with Sam, who nodded just slightly. This was their chance.

As if one person, both Winchesters launched themselves at the Slayer at exactly the same moment, Sam grabbing him around the middle while Dean caught his shoulders and both pushed sideways.

The dark figure swayed a little when they released him, as if trying to regain his balance before he fell.

But it was a futile gesture, their shadowy nemesis toppling backwards, straight onto the power lines which snagged across his shoulders, catching and holding him there, suspended and motionless as white sparks of electricity arced out all around him. He twitched and jerked hideously, his clothes smoking as the smell of seared flesh hung in the air and the Winchesters had to throw themselves down flat onto the roof to avoid being hit by the power dancing and sparking all around them.

The train had gradually ground to a halt as the lights flickered out in the cars beneath them, and the boys were plunged into darkness, the only illumination from the electricity still arcing over their heads.

Then there was nothing.

Just the sound of their own breathing.

Dean raised his head slowly, first to check Sam’s wellbeing, second to check on the bad guy.

He was still hanging there, face shrouded in darkness, lifeless and unmoving.

“Is it over?” Sam asked breathlessly.

“He looks pretty crispy,” Dean commented, pushing himself up to his knees as the lights flickered back on inside the 66, the signals flipping to green as if some circuit breaker had been thrown and the system had reset itself.

The train jerked forward, the sound of the wheels on the track accompanied by a low, maniacal laugh.

“You think that’s going to hurt me?”

Dean glanced over at his brother, heart picking up the rhythm of the train tracks beneath him.

“Not crispy enough,” Sam muttered, catching hold of Dean’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “I think we need to go…”

Before either of them could move, there was a hiss and another explosion of sparks, the dark shape of the Slayer twitching and jerking before pulling himself away from the power lines altogether, electricity still arcing from his fingertips.

“Oh crap…” Dean mumbled.

“You think so?” Sam returned. “Dean, we need to go –”

But Dean didn’t move. “Dude, I’m thinking maybe more Shocker than Octopussy…”

“Dean –”

“It’s made him stronger, Sammy! The electricity’s made him stronger!

“Dean, now!”

Sam caught hold of Dean’s collar, yanking him backwards just as the Slayer himself made a grab for the older Winchester, who managed to duck at the last second, rolling to one side and attempting to pull Sam with him.

Unfortunately, Sam didn’t move fast enough and Dean didn’t have the leverage he needed to throw his brother enough off balance to get him out of the Slayer’s path, the shadowy assailant smacking the younger Winchester full force across the chest with one outstretched arm, propelling him backwards and knocking him clean off the roof.

“SAMMY!” Dean yelled, scrabbling over to the side of the train where his brother had disappeared, just as the Slayer made another grab for him, this time snagging his arm and yanking him to his feet.

Squinting into the darkness, Dean tried to make out the bastard’s features, but still couldn’t see who the hell he was. He was smaller than Dean – way smaller than Sam – but freakishly strong – strong enough to have knocked Dean’s six foot four inch brother back so hard he apparently hadn’t even managed to get a handhold before tumbling off the roof of the train.

“Son of a –” Dean grit his teeth and tried to twist out of the Slayer’s iron grip, but the smaller man merely yanked him closer, grabbing hold of Dean’s upper arms so tightly he had to bite back a yell of surprised pain. “Get off of me you freaky-assed bastard!” he snarled instead, not liking his current trajectory one bit as the Slayer spun him around, his back toward the power lines.

“Time for you to fry, boy,” the menacing voice growled, pushing him further backwards.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck at his proximity to the cables, the sound of the power humming through the lines way too close for comfort.

This was so not going how Dean had imagined it.

Suddenly the train lurched forward, knocking the Slayer off balance as the 66 gathered speed, Dean shoving him hard as his attacker’s fingers scrabbled to maintain purchase on the smooth slickness of Dean’s leather jacket.

The Slayer fell back, going down hard but not falling off the roof as Sam had, and Dean wrenched himself free, seizing the opportunity to make a tactical retreat.

With Sam, he might have stood a chance against this guy. On his own? He wasn’t so sure. The guy was strong, maybe too strong even for Dean and his behemoth brother put together.

Figuring Sam had been right and he really needed to get the hell out of there, Dean turned, deciding to make a run for it while he still could, while the Slayer was still laid out on the deck and he had the element of surprise and speed on his side.

But this time, he was running into the wind as the train picked up speed, and that wasn’t going to make his escape any easier.

Blood pounding in his ears in time with his feet, he sprinted back along the train, leaping onto the next car with barely a thought as he listened out for pursuing footsteps. When he heard none, he risked a glance back over his shoulder, seeing nothing in the darkness, but suddenly feeling as if he’d been plowed into by several thousand pounds of freight train.

Toppling forward, he landed hard, the Slayer’s lithe body on top of him, a hand to his throat and another trying to wrestle control of one of his flailing arms.

Man this freak was strong….

But Dean was never one to give up that easily, ramming his elbow into the general area of his assailant’s face and eliciting a satisfying grunt as he managed to squirm his way out from under him, dragging himself up onto his hands as knees as he tried to regain his footing.

“Not so fast, boy. You think you can get away from me? No one ever gets away from me…”

The Slayer caught his ankle just as he tried to stand, pulling him back down onto the roof of the train even as Dean kicked viciously at him, succeeding in landing one CAT to the dude’s head.

He had no time to celebrate, however, because suddenly the world tipped sideways and he was falling, right over the side of the car, the ground coming up to meet him at a dizzying speed….

Railroad track
Outside of Bristol, PA

Sam opened first one eye, moving it around a little bit in its socket, before daring to open the second, darkness all he could see for miles and miles, and for a moment he wondered if he’d hit his head and blinded himself somehow.

He took a breath. Then another. It hurt like hell, ribs screaming in pain with each inhale, with each exhale, with each tiny movement. He blinked, dark clouds coming into view in an even darker sky above him.

What the hell happened to him?

He tried to think, tried to remember where he was, what he’d been doing.

Dean. Slayer. Train.

Train. Ground.

Hard ground.

Oh crap….

Some rational part of his mind realized how lucky he’d been that the train was barely moving when he fell; but the rest of his body felt far from lucky, every single muscle, bone, joint, inch of skin crying out for mercy as he tried to move into a sitting position, clutching at his ribs as he took in the landscape around him.

He was sitting on a grassy verge at the side of the railroad, red lights in the distance indicating the 66 was still moving away from him, picking up speed as it continued along the tracks, heedless of the fact that it had lost a passenger.

“Dean?” he called out, glancing about himself into the darkness, trying to figure out where the hell his brother was at. He must have fallen with him, right? “Dean!”

There was no reply, and, somehow managing to pull himself shakily to his feet, he began to come to terms with the fact that he was alone out here. That his brother was still on the train.

On the roof.

With the Slayer.

“Dean!”

He took a jerky step forward, grimacing in agony as almost indescribable pain shot up his left leg.

“Dean?”

He squinted after the retreating train, the lights of a distant town silhouetting two shapes on the roof as the loco pulled slightly to the right, snaking around a long lazy bend as it headed further and further away from him.

The two figures appeared to be struggling, and one went down, then the other.

And then one of them fell.

“Dean!”

The train was accelerating, and even though he knew he could never catch it, and despite the agony in his leg, Sam began to run.

But before he could take more than a couple of steps, his ankle gave out beneath him and he fell in a heap to the dew-soaked grass, biting back a cry of anguished pain as all he could do was watch the train’s rear lights dwindle into the distance.

Without him.

Dean was alone with the Slayer.

And Hell Gate Bridge was less than a hundred miles away….

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The Winchester Chronicles